


Kiss Your Lullabies

by Whiskey Wit (whiskeywit)



Category: The Beatles
Genre: M/M, Post-breakup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-25
Updated: 2017-03-25
Packaged: 2018-10-10 11:21:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10436544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeywit/pseuds/Whiskey%20Wit
Summary: Set in 1976/1977, Paul shows up on John's doorstepFor @classicmclennon on Tumblr





	

When Paul shows up on his doorstep, John’s overwhelmed.

It shouldn’t. Yoko’s talked to him about the possibility, and he knows she’s cunning, clever and sly, because that’s why he fell for her in the first place. It shouldn’t come as a surprise that she’s been scheming, scheduled his day off while Linda’s done the same for Paul.

Well. Fuck them.

He closes the door in Paul’s face.

Thirty minutes later, John knows Paul’s sat in front of his room.

It’s not a hard guess, either. Paul is humming songs—sometimes under his breath, sometimes in that annoyingly obnoxious way he used to, he used to.

John tries not to think and turns the volume on his telly up another notch. Yoko’s taken Sean out for the day—to the zoo, with a friend, and she said she might stay the night. John thinks it’s a plot, now. 

 

He doesn’t know how it happens but later—some time, maybe more—he finds himself leaning against the front door, his back to the cool wood, while he listens to Paul. Paul would fall backwards, inside, if he’d open up now.

Would it be worth the view—that’s what he’s really wondering.

(He’s not sure if he can stand the git if he were to open his mouth again.)

Paul’s humiliation, though.

(Him running his mouth?)

Paul’s eyebrows, raised up comically, in shock, terrified-but-not-but–

(Seeing Paul. The idea terrifies John.)

–but yes.

(No. It’s been too long.)

 

The door opens easily.

Paul has a guitar in his lap, that tumbles along in a graceful backwards fall, almost as if he’d been expecting it all along, an “oh” that sounds like part of a song.

Big, big brown eyes that look up at him, familiar enough to send a rush through John’s stomach, to make him forget about all his anxieties and insecurities—at least for a moment, or two.

(Or three. Three, possibly, no, probably, he thinks a million miles an hour, because God—Paul’s mouth. He remembers the what’s and the why’s, now.)

Paul looks innocent as ever. His hair falls over his forehead, a hint of grey just here and there, longer in the back and shorter in the front and not at all like the boy he once knew—but he knows that boy’s all here. All here, on his doorstep, quite literally.

“Hullo,” Paul says, a slow smile spreading on his lips.

Like he knows no evil, knows no cunning. Isn’t aware of the games they’ve been playing.

“Hello, luv,” John responds in kind.

Paul will never be the only one to play this game. He’ll make sure of that.

Paul knows this, too. His grin grows wider as he pushes himself upright—finally, finally. The wood of his guitar thunks against the floor of the apartment, the strings complaining loudly, and John leans against the wall with the false composure of confidence and knowledge.

Ever.

Paul leaves the guitar on the floor when he gets up. He wants to shake John’s hand, then changes his mind, and John watches it all like he’s watching it all from above.

Paul pulls him into a hug, and John is forced back into his body. There’s intimacy and warmth, a scent he’s missed for over five years and that he doesn’t allow himself to dwell on.

(He finds himself wanting to show pictures of Sean, wanting Paul to hold Sean, and immediately berates himself for it. Yoko’s away. It’s fine.

There’s no real trace of his life here. There can’t be—the people he calls home have left for the day.)

 

(And then, there is Paul.)

 

John says nothing. He has no words, and he has no thoughts to share. There’s shame, deep in his guts, there is the knowledge that how he treats Paul is not how he feels about him, but it is, but it is not—and it sends his emotions spiralling back into a roller coaster, dizzying and confusing.

He takes a deep breath, (in)voluntarily breathes in the scent of Paul and finds himself suspended in that moment. It’s deep oak, fresh grass and a hint of cattle, there are a few notes he doesn’t recognize but in base it is him, it is him, it is him.

It’s enough to pull John back, to allow him to steady on his own two feet as he pulls back and looks into those eyes again. (Puppy dog, gorgeous, sad, beckoning, come hither, “come here”, Paul used to say.)

He swallows the wave of emotion. Blinks, then smiles, because he can’t be the idiot left out here, even if it’s the two of them.

Especially if it’s the two of them.

He thinks he hates Yoko and Linda still. (And yet he doesn’t, but he does—has to decide, consciously, not to dwell on that). Then snaps back to the present, again.

Paul’s scent still lingers in his nose, and an apology trembles on his lips but he can’t bear to say it.

Paul doesn’t either. John watches him as he pulls away, retreats into himself and gathers his composure before his guitar and then his fingers push John’s door closed, before his toes tap across John’s carpet, and then his bum sits on John’s couch in the living room.

 

John watches Paul observe the room, the LPs he’s got and the art on the walls, the television and couches and carpet on the floor. He feels exposed and judged, and blurts out, “Have you been working on anything new?”

It’s nothing like them.

Paul answers anyway.

“Yeah,” he huffs out the laugh. “You want to hear?”

John finds himself nodding, feels like it’s ‘67 again (for one moment anyway).

Watching Paul fingering the chords is familiar, the way his mouth shapes around the words John doesn’t know yet. He lets Paul sing and knows he’ll memorise the lyrics soon, like he has with all the songs Paul’s written before, even if he didn’t want to.

It’s a choice he never wanted to make, meaningful where he never needed it to be. It complicates his life, and watching Paul sit in his living room, pushing his talent in John’s face and making him feel inferior like all the times before—it’s terrible, it’s absolutely terrible and he is helpless.

 

He ignores all of his thoughts and focuses on Paul instead.

He’s gorgeous, even after all these years—barely changed, indeed. The spark in John’s tummy has caught on fire all over again, leaving him breathless and speechless.

Paul doesn’t even notice that, though. He just smiles at John with a half-shrug after he’s done singing, and John knows that he can already imagine all the people that’ll do cover versions of it. Like the arrogant asshole he is, and the sting of jealousy is venomous and debilitating—at least for a moment, three seconds until he can breathe through it.

 

Then he rolls out a lazy clap and a slow smile, and he can see Paul preening. Like he hasn’t gotten the attention he’s wanted, in a while.

(He remembers Hamburg, then, the way Paul became pushy whenever John spent too much time with Stuart, that childish yammering for attention that John hated then and—finds kind of, quite endearing now, now that he starts to see it in Sean.)

“Very good,” he says, admits. It hurts something in his chest.

They fall quiet, the mood shifting towards something more intimate and familiar.

Paul shifts in his seat, and John stops breathing. Gorgeous indeed—even if (though) this fight between them is petty, a base need that drives him to piss off Paul again and again and he can’t stop.

And nothing could make him ugly, not to John, not even their feud.

John wonders, sometimes, if Paul is like Dorian Gray—ageless and blameless, adored by everybody, getting up to his personal little crimes but only in the shadows, only known by few. If the public sees him, John, as the big evil (and he knows it’s not him directly but Yoko—knows, that that is not true.)

 

Paul’s lips still feel the same, taste the same, even if John saw the shadow of a wrinkle beside his mouth. He pushes his tongue against Paul’s mouth, in desperate reflex, and finds the minty-fresh flavour of teeth brushed not long before he got here.

And when that fades, (when John knows this might have been Paul’s purpose, his expectation—that Paul cares enough to brush his teeth even now)

–when it does, it’s not hard to let go of all that has happened in the last decade. He feels the annoyance and anger melt away (knows that the negativity will be back, but he chooses to ignore that and go with the flow), and they’re the same.

 

It’s easy to find the edge of Paul’s jumper, fingers creeping under it and touching hot skin that makes Paul jump a little before he relaxes into it.

“It’s okay,” John murmurs against Paul’s mouth before kissing him again, hard and desperate, a moan escaping from his throat unwarranted and it only spurs them on.

He pulls up Paul by his wrists, then grabs his hips and presses their bodies close, cocks grinding together through their jeans. He’s not completely hard yet, but he’s going to be there soon—and John wants Paul in his bed before then.

Drags him there, through the apartment, and Paul’s cheeks are wonderfully flushed by the time they make it there. (And Yoko, no, she won’t mind, she can’t, she won’t. She’ll ask for the details, that’s it. There’s nothing illicit about this now, not on his part.)

 

Then he’s undressing Paul, his fingers finding familiar shapes, pulling up memories that he lets be just that while he buries his face in Paul’s neck, kisses him, sucks a bruise into the tender skin.

Paul moans, hips bucking up as John unbuttons his jeans, drags them down, pulls out Paul’s cock.

It’s easy enough to lick the tip, familiar to wrap his mouth around it and swallow away excess saliva, the bitter precum as Paul’s fingers find John’s hair. He grabs it, bucks into John with a ferocity John’s not used to anymore, his jaw aching more quickly than it used to but he keeps it up anyway. He starts to undress at the same time, away with his socks and trousers and pants, away with the button-up. Only his white under-shirt is left, because he doesn’t want to stop.

Paul yanks at John’s hair before they cum, gives him back his breath—and yet, he doesn’t, because his chest is heaving and there’s a sheen of sweat that’s irresistible to John, that draws him back in like it used to.

He licks Paul’s tummy, filthy like an animal that can’t get enough of prey just caught, bites down on a nipple—Paul yelps but John feels his cock twitch against his thigh—and then they’re rutting together while they bite at one another’s lips.

It stings and it burns and pleasure swells in John’s tummy with huge waves, sending him spiralling down this hole together with Paul until they’re one, until the earth doesn’t exist outside of them, just them, neurons firing and electricity sparking, sparkling, spar,spar–

until Paul’s fingers wrap around their cocks and he throws back his head as he moans, gone, and John gets to see it all even if he thought he would not ever, not-ever again.

It’s never been like this, either.

 

He dives in, reckless in a way he never was, his heart free of any mortal worries as he makes love to Paul.

When Paul comes, he feels it rack his own bones, his breaths coming fast and unsteady as he drives his own hips forward because he wants to follow, wants to share this ultimate pleasure with Paul. Paul’s cum is slick on his fingers, fingers trembling as they wrap around John’s erection, pulling back the foreskin and it’s enough, enough, too much.

 

He swallows air, tastes Paul’s sweat with his eyes closed against the bare skin, dragging his face across Paul’s chest because he needs more and he knows Paul has nothing left to give.

 

When they start to shiver, Paul doesn’t pull the covers over them.

He gets up, makes his way through John’s house like it is his own and gathers his clothes. John still tastes his dick, still feels their semen sticky on his tummy—sees it, on Paul’s, smeared and crusting.

And of course he follows Paul, and of course he’ll hate himself (hate Paul) for that later, but for now it’s just worry and curiosity, a need to say goodbye–

 

“I can drop by more often, y'know,” Paul starts, awkward and making this entire thing stranger than it should be (or—does he; what is wisdom, what should they be doing now what must be done is over and gone, the past just the past).

“Whenever you’re in town,” John agrees.

Nothing will come of it, he knows. And their goodbyes–”Goodbye”, simultaneous, an awkward hug-clap-on-the-shoulder are most brief.

Then Paul’s gone, and John is alone.

He takes a shower.

Grabs a drink.

 

John (just-John-alone) waits for Yoko to come home as he hums a song (Paul’s new song) under his breath and wishes it didn’t happen, even if he already cherishes the memory, touches it with the tender tendrils of his mind.

Shoves it into a dark corner of his mind that he rarely reaches into, except when he needs to or worries nag at his brain at night.

 

 

And he kisses Yoko on her mouth when she gets home and finds that he feels no shame. Finally.


End file.
